


Second Time's the Charm

by weathervaanes, wishingonalightningbolt



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Cheating Derek, Derek is married, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:59:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2474024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weathervaanes/pseuds/weathervaanes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishingonalightningbolt/pseuds/wishingonalightningbolt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every time Stiles thinks about it, it’s with a lot more modesty.  It’s his voice asking What about your wife? and saying No, we can’t, we can’t.  None of that actually happens.  </p>
<p>-0-</p>
<p>Derek is married.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Time's the Charm

**Author's Note:**

> Felt like writing fic in which Derek and Stiles actually aren't the perfect single couple when they meet. 
> 
> Warning for you right now, this fic has an ambiguous ending, so if you're not looking for the guaranteed happily-ever-after, you might want to take your leave.
> 
> Otherwise, hope you enjoy!

Every time Stiles thinks about it, it’s with a lot more modesty. It’s his voice asking _What about your wife?_ and saying _No, we can’t, we can’t_. None of that actually happens. When Derek comes into his office and kisses him flat on the mouth, when he wraps Stiles up in his arms and lifts him onto the desk, stepping between his legs like he belongs there, Stiles doesn’t have a word of protest for him. He thinks, later, that maybe that makes him a bad person, but he doesn’t dwell on that for long.

Stiles’ office is small but everyone is gone, the lights are low, and even the janitors have already left. It’s late; no one’s still around except for them and maybe that’s why it’s perfect, because Stiles doesn’t have to worry about getting caught, doesn’t have to think about anything except Derek’s hot hands down his dress slacks and their mouths colliding perfectly.

There’s no words at all. When Stiles would fantasize about this, about Derek, there was always talking, quiet, intimate conversation about how much they both wanted this, how long they’d been waiting. But all of that is implied. The way Derek grabs at his thighs, hands eager and strong; the way Derek drops to his knees so quickly that Stiles can hear the sharp thud of them against the floor; the way Derek sucks him down without a second’s hesitation, only focused on one thing.

It’s like some high quality porn. There’s a packet of lube that Stiles had tucked away in his desk—not so much placed there out of optimism but out of practicality for when he went straight from the office to a fuck buddy’s place—and a condom from Derek’s jacket and then Stiles is leaning against his desk, hands sweaty and sure to slide away from him, Derek hot and thick inside of him, reminding him what a really good fuck feels like. Everything about it is like something out of a trashy romance novel, Derek’s stilted grunts and groans, Stiles’ eager bodily responses, the way they move together without having to say a word.

Stiles comes with Derek’s hand around his cock, catching most of his come so as not to ruin his desk or the paperwork on it. Derek manages another handful of thrusts before he comes into the condom, panting against the back of Stiles’ neck, shuddering through his shoulders.

That’s when the scene breaks. That’s when everything goes from cinematic to real, and Stiles is acutely aware of his shirt sticking to his back, his pants pooled around his ankles, Derek’s heavy presence in the room as he tosses a tied-off condom into the little trash can next to Stiles’ desk. Stiles pulls up his boxer briefs and pants, glances at the torn off buttons at the top of his dress shirt, and grabs his tie from the floor.

Derek is still—there. Close, ever-present, and when Stiles turns to face him, Derek kisses him again. This time it’s not as surprising. It’s not harsh or claiming or sudden, and that’s what gets him, the tender quality of his mouth, the way he kisses Stiles like they’ve just made love in a bed, with candles and rose petals and ever other cliché he can think of. It’s perfect, and Stiles clings to him despite himself.

Neither of them has said anything yet. Stiles doesn’t want to be the first one to break the silence, but the longer he waits, the worse it gets. When Derek settles his fingers in the hair at the back of Stiles’ neck, he opens his mouth.

“Can I see you tomorrow night?” Derek asks, and Stiles chokes on his words.

Derek settles his warm palm flat on the notch of Stiles’ spine.

“Stiles?”

“Where?” Stiles asks, voice thick.

“Your apartment.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah.”

This time, Derek’s mouth only lingers for a second, quick and subtle. “Tomorrow,” he says, and he leaves just as quietly as he’d come.

* * *

 

They fuck again before any conversation at all happens, and honestly, Stiles can accept some of the blame for that. Derek doesn’t seem incredibly sexually aggressive when he shows up at Stiles’ apartment late the next evening, doesn’t try to grope Stiles or kiss him or anything, but as soon as he’s inside, peeling off his jacket, Stiles is on him like white on rice. There’s something about being allowed to touch now, when he’s wanted to for so long. It’s heady, and he can’t stop himself from pulling Derek in by the neck, kissing him fiercely.

Stiles blows him this time, and Derek jerks him off, and by the time they’ve come and are warm and tired, they’re sprawled over the couch, a sticky, jumbled mess. Stiles is half on top of him, both of them staring up at the ceiling, Stiles’ sweaty shoulder pressed onto Derek’s sweaty chest. Derek has one hand in his hair, pushing through it, playing with it. Stiles closes his eyes, breathes.

“Have you eaten?” Stiles asks.

“Erica bought me a burrito from the food truck down the street a couple hours ago.”

“I make a mean grilled cheese.”

Derek turns his head, noses along Stiles’ temple. “Shower with me first.”

Stiles is seconds away from making a comment about the shower being pointless, since they’re probably going to fuck again later, but it occurs to him that maybe they aren’t. It’s already ten o’clock and Derek has a loft to get back to, a wife, a dog. So he keeps his mouth shut and pulls Derek into the bathroom.

Derek is getting dressed when he starts to speak.

“Can you tell me what you’re thinking?” he asks, buttoning up his shirt patiently.

Stiles blinks down at his empty, greasy plate. “About?”

“Stiles.”

“We had sex,” Stiles tells him, grabbing for a paper towel to wipe his hands off on. “I was into it. You were into it. If you want it to happen again, I’d like that. If you don’t, that’s okay.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” He smiles minutely. “You don’t have to be so diplomatic all the time.”

Stiles purses his lips. “You’re cheating on your wife.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He waits, for a moment, for Derek to defend himself, to say that Kate’s sleeping with someone else too, that Kate is doing this, that, or the other thing, but no such defense comes. It’s startling, not least of all because Stiles already knows that that’s exactly what’s happening. “Is it because of what happened after New Year’s?”

“No,” Derek says shortly. “You think I’d make a decision like this because of something so stupid?”

“I don’t think it was stupid. It was important. You _fired_ me.”

“And then I rehired you. You’re welcome.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “So you’re not having sex with me as some weird way of getting revenge for the fact that I was the one who found out that your wife was having sex with your uncle. And one of your employees. And—”

Derek’s jaw tightens. Stiles watches the bone slowly become more prominent, tight against his skin.

“Right. You get the picture.”

“I was upset with you,” Derek says lowly, “and then I got over it. This isn’t a weird way of getting revenge. This is—me acting on desire for the first time in years.” He licks his lips, looks up at him. “If you don’t want this, then tell me.”

“I don’t even know what _this_ is.”

Derek shrugs. “I like you. I always have.”

“And her having an affair is an excuse for you to have one now.”

“Is yes the wrong answer?”

Stiles stands, sets his plate in the sink. He’s still half dressed, nothing but sweats on, but he strolls over to Derek with his hands tucked in his pockets. “I need to know some things going into it. Like how long you picture this lasting, whether or not you have plans to leave her, how often you think we’re going to be seeing each other, how this affects the work I do for you, and so forth.”

“Shoot me an email; I’ll be happy to address your concerns.” Derek tugs him in by hooking a finger under his waistband, kisses him slowly. “I should make sure I’m home before she is. I’ll text you.”

“Are we gonna develop some secret passwords or something?”

“I’ll keep you updated. Thanks for the sandwich.”

“You’re welcome for the sandwich,” Stiles says, following him to the door. “And the sex. You’re especially welcome for the sex.”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Three months ago, Stiles didn’t show up to the office New Year’s celebration. Three months ago, Stiles was in a bar with some friends instead of hanging out with his coworkers. Three months ago, Stiles saw Katherine and Peter Hale meet up on a street corner and make out for a solid three minutes before getting in the latter’s car and speeding off to an unknown location. A day after that, Stiles was parked outside of Peter’s apartment, taking pictures of Kate leaving early in the morning, holding her blouse closed as she stepped into a cab. And a day after _that_ , his boss Derek Hale fired him for dropping the pictures on his desk.

Stiles is an investigator for Argent, Martin, and Hale, a law firm in San Francisco run by Chris Argent, Lydia Martin, and Derek. They’re smart and savvy and they pay him well for doing a job he loves and it’s his ideal job, honestly. It’s just better when he doesn’t have too many things on his mind—like the fact that he’s fucking his married boss.

“Danny wanted to know if you were gonna call him again,” Lydia says, striding into his office on one slow Tuesday afternoon. He hasn’t hooked up with Derek since the visit in his apartment, but it’s only been four days. There’s time.

“He can call me if he’d like,” Stiles says, saving a file to his desktop. “Usually he’s the more aggressive one anyway.” He leans back in his chair. “If Danny wanted to see me again, he’d let me know.”

Lydia shrugs. “You’ve been quiet lately. Usually you’re walking around, making a lot more noise. Your job been too easy lately, not worth annoying anyone over?”

“Just been a little distracted.” He stands, grabs his jacket. “I’m starving. You want to walk down to Johnny’s, grab a burger?”

It’s not that Stiles has something against Lydia. They’re friends, good friends, and they’ve known each other for what feels like forever, but Stiles isn’t going to tell a soul about Derek, no matter who it is. He might tell Scott. He hasn’t really decided yet.

So maybe he’s a little distant because he’s too busy focusing on the next time he’s going to have Derek in his bed, thinking about the secret, comfortably heavy on his chest like Derek’s body, half asleep on top of his.

* * *

 

**From Derek (9:23 PM):**

 

Can I come over?

 

Stiles glances at his phone, taking his gaze away from the couple across the restaurant. The woman at the table is the daughter of one of their clients, and even though it might not always be good news, it’s Stiles’ job to know the nitty gritty. He checks the time, tucks his camera back in its bag, and leaves, telling Derek yes.

Derek is a ball of frustrated energy when he walks through the door. Ten minutes later, when he’s naked on Stiles’ bed and Stiles is fingering himself, he looks much more relaxed. An hour after that, lounging in his underwear on Stiles’ couch, clean from a shower and eyes half closed, Stiles would go so far as to say that Derek even looks peaceful.

“Isn’t she going to ask where you are?” Stiles asks, twirling the TV remote in his hand. “It’s late.”

“Our job keeps us late sometimes.” His voice is soft and sleep-heavy. “It’s a Wednesday. That’s when she stays late at Peter’s. She won’t be home until midnight, and she knows I don’t expect her home before then.”

Stiles nods slowly to himself. Derek’s legs are in his lap, and Stiles massages his calves lazily, digging his fingers into the muscle. “You can stay whenever you want. I—don’t know if you don’t want her to find out, or if she even knows that you know about Peter—”

“I fired Matt,” Derek says, “who was—you remember, the paralegal. So I think she has some idea that I’m aware they fucked.”

“But not Peter.”

Derek shrugs. “She’s still seeing him; she’s still lying to me. I think it’s safe to say she thinks I’m still ignorant.”

Stiles licks his lips. “Are you still going to sleep with her?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs, the noise heavy and awkward in the space. “If I don’t, she’ll know something’s wrong.”

“You said—you said you were making thinking about divorcing her.”

“I can think about anything I want. That doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.” He huffs, looks straight at Stiles, eyes open now.   “She’s Chris’ sister. I couldn’t stay at the firm if we divorced, and I never made her sign a pre-nup because I was stupid and in love, and she would probably walk away with at least half of my stuff and my money.” His jaw is tight, tense. “Pictures of her with my uncle mean nothing to a court. Not unless they’re real, and damning.”

The thing is, that’s Stiles’ job—and Derek knows it. And without having to say it to him directly, without purposefully hiring him to do a job that could get him in trouble, Stiles already knows what Derek is asking of him.

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Stiles says, reaching out for Derek’s hand.

“I’m glad you think so.”

* * *

 

There are six other nights that they spend together because they get the case in LA. There’s an actor down there who has a friend in the city—said friend referred said actor to Argent, Martin, and Hale, and now Derek, two employees of his own choosing, and Stiles are going down to take the case, because there’s a shit ton of money involved, and Derek has never been one to say no to travelling.

(Stiles isn’t sure that there’s really a lot of reason to bring him along. But Derek doesn’t hesitate for a second when he gets the call, tells Stiles to pack a bag and get to the airport. It almost feels like a vacation.)

They have lots of hotel sex while they’re there. They sleep in the same bed, curled together. Stiles never even sets foot in his own room, just camps out in Derek’s, so he can be there when Derek rolls over, groping for him early in the morning. They fuck in the shower—even though Stiles is sure he’s going to slip and brain himself—and against the counter and up against the wall. They fuck so much that Stiles is basically one relaxed mush of organs with his brain depleted to wobbly nonsense.

After they get everything sorted out in LA and Derek leaves one of the younger lawyers there to represent the guy, they go back to San Francisco, Stiles goes home to apartment, and is stunned by how empty it feels. It has furniture and pictures and shit, but he’s the only one that lives there. Even when Scott moved out to get an apartment with his girlfriend Stiles didn’t feel the loneliness in the space so profoundly.

He considers sending Derek a text about that.

He doesn’t.

Instead he shows up at work the next Monday, remembering what Derek looked like riding him, remembering Derek’s soft, sweet snores when he’s deep in sleep, how he feels pushed against Stiles’ body in the middle of the night. He stops in the elevator, thinking about Derek’s mouth kissing his goodbye in the hotel room before they were back to professionalism, back to the airport, back home—and it hits him square in the chest.

He’s in love with Derek. He’s always had a bit of crush, liked the way he filled out his suits, liked his brain and his wit and his charm. But it was always sexual in his head, any time he entertained the thought of them. It was never some kind of sweet, emotional connection. Stiles never wanted a future with him, a house, a life. He never thought he could have one.

The next thing he thinks to do is not so much a logical reaction as an emotional one. He’s finishing up work and he can see that the light in Derek’s office is still on—Lydia is walking by, ready to leave, and she hesitates at Stiles’ doorway, where he’s leaning out. “The wife is working late,” she says, half shrugging, “so he might as well too. No fun going home to an empty house.” She gives him a little wave and makes her way to the elevator bay, and Stiles hurries to gather his things and follow her.

It’s not hard to find Kate. She’s in Peter’s apartment, dressed in nothing but a thong and a robe so small it’s practically a T-shirt. And Stiles would feel a little creepy about seeing Derek’s wife naked if he weren’t a professional, if it weren’t his job to gather this kind of information about people all the time. The pictures are incredibly incriminating, them on the couch, Kate in Peter’s lap, the robe coming off. It’s enough to prove she’s having an affair, enough for any jury, and Stiles gets out of there as quickly as he possibly can.

* * *

 

Derek comes by two times the next week and Stiles doesn’t say anything about the pictures. When they’re together, he wants it to just be them, want to forget about Kate and Peter and everything that’s standing in their way. It’s a romanticized idea of what their relationship really is, Stiles knows, but when they’re just like this, it’s easier to pretend.

He prints the photos on a Friday, brings them into work and puts them in an orange packing envelope, all ready for Derek. He knows they’re going to have to talk about it, but it’s—easier for now, to just let him look at them so he knows he has proof, so he knows he has a way out. After Derek’s done his soul searching on that, they can have a real conversation.

Towards the end of the day, Stiles heads towards Derek’s office, bypasses Erica sitting at her desk, and knocks quickly on Derek’s desk before twisting the handle. It’s locked.

“Mrs. Hale is visiting,” Erica tells him. “You want me to give you a call when he’s done? Is it something important?”

Stiles heart stutters in his chest. “Kate’s here?”

“She’s been in there a while; she’ll probably leave soon.”

Without having to listen in, Stiles already knows what’s going on in Derek’s office, with Kate in his lap the same way she was with Peter, untying his tie with the same nimble fingers she wraps around his cock, her mouth on his, keeping him quiet as they reenact every office porno ever made.

Stiles steps away from the closed door and takes a knee, sliding the envelope under the tiny crack in the door. He stands, brushes off his trousers. “Tell Derek to give me a call when he’s ready to talk about the envelope.”

Erica nods, writes it down. “You’ve got it.”

He shouldn’t be angry. He knew that Derek was probably still having sex with Kate, trying to make her think everything was fine, lulling her into a false sense of security so she would be easier to catch off guard. But that was in their home, in their bed, without any connection to Stiles at all, and now, they’re a handful of yards away, and Stiles is overwhelmed by this possessiveness that’s tearing him apart from the inside.

He leaves before Kate does, gets out, says he’s going to work from home. It doesn’t matter. He won’t.

Derek doesn’t text him, doesn’t call, not until 6 o’clock the next morning while Stiles is making coffee. His phone alerts him to the message seconds before there’s a heavy pounding on his front door.

“What the fuck is this?” Derek demands, shoving into the apartment and throwing the pictures onto Stiles’ coffee table.

Stiles steels his jaw. “You said you couldn’t leave her without evidence that she was fucking Peter. So there you go.” He crosses his arms over his chest when Derek doesn’t speak. “Look, we didn’t really talk about it and that’s fine but I—if you’re not planning on leaving her, I need to know. I owe it to myself and to you to get out of this right now if that’s the case.”

Derek exhales, asks, “Why?” even though it looks like he already knows the answer.

Stiles doesn’t answer, goes to get his mug and stir in his chocolate milk. He drinks half of it before he turns back to where Derek is still standing.

“Are you seeing other people?” Derek asks then, body still tight and still. “That guy—Danny. And the girl that you have lunch with some days, Heather. Are you—”

“No,” Stiles interrupts. “Danny and I used to have a thing, but I broke it off with him before you and I ever—and Heather is just a friend from when I was a kid. She just got a job in the city, and we see each other sometimes but she’s got a girlfriend and—are you still sleeping with Kate because you thought I was sleeping with other people? Or are you sleeping with her because you want to? Or because you’re worried she’s going to find out you’re cheating on her if you don’t?”

“She’s my _wife_ —”

“Who’s fucking your uncle!” Stiles shouts.

“And I’m fucking my employee, so I don’t really have a place to stand, do I?” Derek grumbles.

Stiles huffs. “Would you have started this with me if you hadn’t known about Kate’s affair?”

“I thought about it,” Derek says without hesitation, and it shocks him, honestly. “You—you’re beautiful, and smart, and I thought about you all the time but—no. Probably not. Not while we were married, I wouldn’t have—touched you.” He meets Stiles’ eyes, hands stuffed in his pockets. “I wouldn’t have done anything.”

Stiles licks his lips. “What if you weren’t married? What if I was just somebody who worked in your office? What if—you were single. And I was single.”

“Then I would’ve done everything humanly possible to get you to go out with me,” Derek tells him, and he’s closing the distance between them with a handful of steps, kissing him so fiercely that Stiles feels like he’s going to fall apart under his touch.

He lets the kiss go on for a while, so he can savor what it feels like, make sure he memorizes every detail. Then he puts his hands on Derek’s chest and pulls back, says, “Are you going to leave her?”

Derek cups Stiles’ jaw, fingers slow and attentive. “Yes,” he whispers. “I’m going to leave her.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise. Stiles, I swear to God, I’m going to talk to Chris and I’m—even if I have to leave the firm, I’m going to leave her. She’s toxic and you’re so patient and I—I’m going to leave her,” he repeats, more emphatically, like he’s sitting in a confessional. “I’m going to leave her.”


End file.
